Pollux and the Enchantress
by OlegGunnarsson
Summary: After the war ends, George Weasley grows angrier and angrier as the former Death Eaters continue to kill with impunity. A chance encounter in London gives him the tools to respond in kind, and he becomes a man of focus and commitment in his pursuit of justice. Then, everything changes when a young witch buys the shop next to his.
1. The Ferryman's Fee

_17 July 2004  
__Diagon Alley_

When Harry Potter arrived at Diagon Alley, the fires were still burning.

Aurors were keeping the curious away from the scene, even as curse breakers were busily working to contain the blaze. The problem was not that fiendfyre had been used, as the _Prophet_ had speculated - for at this point, five years after the second wizarding war and the fall of Voldemort, most of the Auror Corps knew how to manage the cursed fire. No, the problem was that the shop next to the target was filled with all manner of unusual substances, most of which reacted rather poorly to the uncontrolled fire next door.

When Verdant Portraiture was burned, it quickly consumed Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes as well.

Harry saw his target sitting at Fortescue and Sons, sipping a cup of tea. The auror was recently off-duty, if the soot on his red robes was any indication. But for this man, the case was personal.

"Hello, Ron," Harry said as he sat down next to his first friend. "No change?"

Ron Weasley shook his head. "None." He looked over at Harry. "Did you…?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. "He won't let go of her hand. Your mum had to transfigure the chair so he could get some rest where he sat."

Ron nodded at that. "I can't believe he got to her in time."

"Oh, I can." answered Harry. "I think he knew something was going to happen. He bought one of her first portraits, and had her make an extra frame so they could communicate." Harry's eyes went to the burning shop front, the tasteful green facade a blackened ruin. "I think he was expecting something like this, even if he didn't realize it."

"Old habits," said Ron, thoughtfully.

"Yep," Harry agreed.

The pair sat quietly, watching the inferno. It was a sight neither had expected to see again, not since the Room of Requirements that day five years ago. From this distance, with the knowledge that they were both safe behind barriers and shields and the like? The sight was oddly beautiful.

Harry looked from the joke shop to the portrait shop. Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes held little that couldn't be replaced, apart from memories. Harry had already told Molly that he would cover any costs, citing his part ownership as a reason. George was safe, and as long as he was willing, the business would rebuild.

The portrait shop, on the other hand? He wasn't sure what would happen there. Most of its business was in repair, taking old damaged portraits and restoring them to life, refreshing the enchantments that made them work and updating them with new charms. Some of those charms were groundbreaking enough to earn an International Mastery for the owner, despite her age. No, it was the inventory that worried Harry, for some of the portraits in that shop had undoubtedly been priceless pieces, utterly irreplaceable.

He knew Astoria Greengrass was skilled, and had a passion for the work. In the short years since she had opened for business, her reputation had grown by leaps and bounds, to the point where ICW diplomats visiting London frequently brought paintings for her to evaluate and repair.

The painting of James and Lily Potter that hung in the study at Potter Manor was Astoria's work, and captured their likenesses so well that Harry frequently found himself staring at his parents, lost in thought. It was not a perfect portrait, being completed so long after the subjects had died, but Astoria had gone all out to come as close as she could. She had even viewed his memories of the graveyard, the forbidden forest, and his mother's death - all in an attempt to give the painting every ounce of realism that she could. It was, simply put, a masterwork.

Right now, however, that passion would do little. Astoria Greengrass, owner and proprietor of Verdant Portraiture, was laying in a bed at Saint Mungo's. She was burned over sixty percent of her body by cursed fire, which made her _cruciatus _exposure a footnote at best. If she walked again, it would be with a cane or a staff, and even then it was uncertain.

She had to wake up first.

George Weasley had been alerted by that old portrait he had bought from his new neighbor, and apparated down to the Alley without a moment's pause. He shouted for help instantly, even as he transfigured his shirt and shorts into the heaviest robes he could manage. Then, wand in hand, he ran into the burning shop.

Witnesses later reported that he was in the portrait shop for twenty-two seconds. When he emerged, carrying the badly burned witch, he cried out for help. By then, aurors were beginning to arrive, and two of them took Astoria from his arms. A third led George away, only to stop when he fell to his knees on the cobblestone. The adrenaline draining from him, he cried out in anger at what had happened, before passing out.

The auror laid him down on the street, gasping when he saw the burns on George's hands. Shortly, he was following Astoria to Saint Mungo's.

Ron's voice brought Harry out of his thoughts.

"He's going to kill them all, isn't he?" Ron said, quietly.

Harry could only nod. "They have absolutely no idea what they've done."

oOoOoOoOo

_1 September 1998  
__London, UK_

George Weasley had not slept properly since the end of the war.

The funerals had barely registered, filled with nameless faces offering soothing words and little comfort. Always the same faces, too. It got to the point where you could leave a funeral and shake the wizard's hand next to you, as if to say "See you back here tomorrow."

Fred's funeral was more tolerable, if only because of the feast that followed after. Molly Weasley had thrown herself into cooking the meal, knowing that she would fall to pieces without a task. Ginny, Hermione, and Audrey did all they could to help, and ended up carrying the load when everything became too much for the Weasley matriarch.

_Audrey, _thought George, as he walked down the street in Muggle London. _I wish I had known you better. _

Percy's fiance had dragged him to the funeral, nearly forcing him at wandpoint to reconcile with his family. It was not that he had not wanted to attend, but rather that he expected not to be welcome.

His place in post war Britain was an unusual one, and he had earned it. Percy had spurned the light, publicly and often, supporting the Fudge administration and its failures with zeal. After the ministry fell, he fed information to the order when he could, even sabotaging the camps where possible. Twice, a team of aurors transporting convicted muggleborn found their portkeys directed into the English Channel, while their "prisoners" went into hiding.

It was a rare skill, George mused to himself - his older brother had managed to piss off just about everybody. _He was good at that, had been all his life._ George could imagine his brother huffing at the slight, and chuckled. _Can't do anything about it now, can you, Perce old boy? _

An old woman was waiting for him at the apartment building where Percy had kept his flat. That he had lived muggle was a surprise, but it fit the pragmatic man Percy had always been. The flat was only a short walk to the Ministry, and around the corner from a small coffee shop. Exactly the sort of convenient location for an arse-kissing ministry up-and-comer looking to impress his boss.

The landlady clearly recognized George as her tenant's brother, for she nodded to him and opened the door without a word. They walked up the stairs to the flat, and its simple wooden door. The whole building was plain, ordinary, nondescript - a perfect fit for the Percy that most people saw.

Once the door was open, George stepped into the flat, taking in the layout. He did not hear the landlady follow him in until she spoke.

"Percival was a good lad," she said, the sort of comment one says when they don't know how else to break the silence.

George could only nod. "He was a stuck-up git, madam," then he turned and smiled kindly at her. "But he was our stuck-up git, and we loved him."

Her face softened as the insult was explained, and she gave George a smile. "That's the way of things, isn't it just?"

Another nod. "Always is."

After the silence stretched out again, the landlady decided that George would want time alone to pack up his brother's belongings. Leaving some cardboard boxes and a piece of paper with her number, she withdrew.

George stood in the living room, looking around at his dead brother's worldly possessions. None of his siblings had been willing to come with, though he did not bother to ask them. He had already done this once with Fred, and again with Alicia. Putting someone's life in boxes, reducing them and placing them in a trunk? He was getting quite good at it.

With a sigh, he took out his wand and got to work.

oOoOoOoOo

_3 September 1998  
__Potter Manor  
__Wales__  
_

Harry Potter was worried about George.

After Fred had died, he had seemed numb to the world - and who wouldn't, in that position? The man had felt like his other half had been torn away, that he would never be truly complete. He would start a sentence, and then sit quietly as he waited for his brother to finish it. Had his friends and family not intervened, he probably would have been waiting even now, months later.

Percy, of all people, had taken it on himself to drag George back to reality. And now Percy was dead, executed with his fiance and dumped in the street entrance of the Ministry. The word "TRAITOR" was painted across the interior of the phone booth in Weasley blood. The notice-me-not charms on the booth worked all too well that day, for it was several hours before the early workers of the Ministry found the bodies.

Harry sat in his study, drinking an Irish coffee - for it seemed proper to drink _something _after a Weasley funeral, if the drunk he and Ron had endured after Fred's was any indication. The following morning, Molly had assured him that she had done much the same after burying her brothers. At her suggestion, George and Ron had both chosen to stay at Potter Manor, neither wanting to drink alone. Both had long since gone to bed, or so Harry thought.

At the back of his mind, Harry felt the tingle of his magic - a signal from the manor's wards. Even now, a month after moving into the restored manor house, he was still getting used to having control of a ward scheme as complex as this one. This particular signal told him of repeated spellfire.

With none of the wards indicating an intruder, that left only one option.

Harry found George in the basement training room, casting stunner after stunner at one of the dummies that served as targets. George had a bottle of muggle whiskey in his off hand, and Harry saw that the bottle was much emptier than it had been earlier in the evening.

"Hello, ickle Harrikins," said George, without looking back at the door. It was an auror move, one Ron had mentioned - to take your eyes off of an enemy was to invite a counter attack. And it took just one spell to end a battle the wrong way, after all.

"George," answered Harry. He took a seat against the back wall of the training room, watching as George continued to cast. Trying to lighten the mood, he remarked on the scene before him. "I think you got him, mate."

George scoffed at that, but kept on casting. The spells changed from the red of a stunner to the brownish yellow of a stinging hex. Harry frowned at that, for it meant that George was shifting to a spell that used less magic, hoping to conserve his strength.

"George," Harry began, only to stop when the whiskey bottle came flying at him. Seeker reflexes and a quick spell help him catch the bottle, which was fortunate - George had aimed it well, and it would have struck Harry right in the forehead had it hit its target.

When Harry looked back at George, he saw that the target downrange now wore a black robe and a silver mask. Unlike the usual Death Eater masks, however, this one was the laughing half of the traditional comedy and tragedy masks that adorned theatres worldwide.

"How long, Harry?" asked George, his wand still aimed at the target. "Or is it My Lord Potter, if you please?" There was no bitterness in the man's words, only a barely restrained anger blended with drink.

"I don't know what you mean, George," Harry said, cautiously.

With a wordless spell, George sent a blast of magic at the dummy. The spell struck true, and the wooden target was obliterated, mask and all. George continued to stare down range, his wand at the ready. Without turning, he spoke in a quiet voice.

"How long do we let the bad guys win, Harry?"

In the years to come, Harry would blame himself for what followed. He would try as hard as he could to come up with some level of guilt for which he could atone. He would debate the issue at length with the portraits of the manor, old and new. But in the end, he would regret absolutely nothing about his response. And while he might claim to hate himself for it, for the idea that his words may have started that terrible hunt, the reality is that Harry Potter would only regret one thing - that it was not him who did what was necessary.

With a sigh, Harry looked at the man who was the closest thing to an older brother he'd ever known.

"I don't know, George."

oOoOoOoOo

_5 September 1998  
__London, UK_

For the last time, George Weasley stood on the street in front of Percy's flat.

The landlady had walked through the apartment, complimenting how thoroughly George had cleaned every surface. She confessed that she would have given him back the deposit on the flat even if it hadn't been perfect, but she appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

"You and your family have so much to worry about," she had said. "And you still took the time to do this for me. Thank you." Then the muggle woman had given him a hug and her best wishes, before leaving him to his thoughts.

At that moment, George Weasley had but one thought. Where could he get a drink on a Saturday afternoon in Muggle London?

He walked aimlessly for close to an hour, gathering his thoughts. His feet took him to one of those small parks that seemed to dot the landscape, with small benches for sitting and statues of muggle war heroes.

In years past, George might have enjoyed seeing the sights of the great city. But then he looked up at a soldier atop a horse, pointing his sword toward some imagined enemy, and felt the urge to comment on it to Fred. He even turned to his right, looking for his twin.

Alas, Fred was not there.

What he did see, however, was a dark-haired man standing between two buildings, looking through a telescope of some sort. The scope was mounted on a pipe, something George had not seen before. Turning to his left, George saw an older man sitting on one of the park benches, speaking into a small muggle device. His back was facing George, and so he would not have seen the telescope.

Two years of open war, and more battles than he could remember, combined in that moment. George knew that there was a threat, and that it came from the man hiding between the buildings. He did not need to understand the threat to know that something was coming. Turning to his right, his shield was springing to life even before he saw the muzzle flash of the rifle.

The round made an echoing sound as it struck the shield, drawing the attention of the man on the bench. The assassin (and even now, George had labelled the man as an assassin in his mind) looked on in shock, frozen as he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. It was that momentary pause that allowed George to send a stunner his way.

George was kicking the rifle away from the man when he heard footsteps behind him.

"If you see William, have him send a team to my location." The muggle was still speaking to someone on his phone, George saw. "It would appear that someone got ideas above their station."

With a push of a button, the man closed the device and put it into his pocket. By this point, he was standing next to George, regarding the Japanese man laying on the pavement at their feet. George heard the man sigh, as if in disappointment.

"Ah, Mister Takahashi," the man said in his deep voice. "What have you done?" George could tell that the man was used to giving orders, and expecting them to be carried out. He was an important man, or so he seemed.

"You know him?" asked George, trying to get an idea of what he had walked into.

"Oh, Mister Takahashi has done a few odd jobs for me, here and there," answered the man. "It seems that he found another employer, however, more's the pity." The man shook his head, his eyes still on the fallen assassin. "He was good at what he did, one of the best."

Now the man looked up at George, as if to take his measure.

"And you stopped him with a simple stunning spell," continued the man, amusement plain on his features. Off the look of surprise on George's face, the man grinned. "Relax, you don't break the statute when the witness already knows about magic."

George could not think of a good response to that. "Oh?" was the best he came up with, which only amused the man that much more.

"Indeed," he replied. "In my line of work, we are forbidden from hiring witches and wizards, of course. If we did, then others would do the same, and before long you'd have teams of wizard assassins roaming the streets." He shook his head. "It would be bad for business, as I'm sure you can imagine."

George nodded in agreement, not sure how else to react. "What sort of business, exactly?"

"Oh, I'm sure you've figured that out by now, my friend." The man nudged the rifle with his foot. "One of my former employees decided to freelance, and of course his first job would be to kill his old boss." He looked George in the eye, and again George got the feeling that he was being evaluated. The man's gaze was intense - more so than even the closest scrutiny he had ever gotten under Professor McGonagall's watchful eye.

After a moment, the man seemed to relax, holding out his hand. "My name is Winston. Come, let me buy you a drink."

oOoOoOoOo

George followed the man through the streets of London, down several blocks and across an alleyway. It did not escape his notice that there always seemed to be a passerby watching them. He might not have seen it, except for the slight nod that Winston gave to a homeless man sitting in the shadow of an office building.

Few homeless men had a shave that clean.

_Why are you following this man? _George asked himself. It wasn't just the offer of a drink, though it was growing harder for George to say no to that these days. Nor was it some feeling of obligation, for if anything the debt ran the other way.

Part of him worried about spending time with a man who clearly was either a killer or someone who had killers in his employ. Muggle criminals did not worry him, really, and even the occasional wizard thief was easily dealt with - especially in _his _shop. But this, clearly, was something else entirely.

Deep down, George knew why he was doing this. The simple fact was that he did not want to sit in his flat and stare at the boxes that contained Percy's life. All he would have there would be time to think and a bottle to empty, as he waited to join his brothers.

It occurred to him then that he had very nearly died that day. From the shield impact he had seen, George knew how powerful the assassin's shot had been - it would have gone straight through him and struck Winston in the back of the head. He could have died, and had his reflexes been any slower (or his mind been any less sober) that would have been the tale of him.

His mind went to a vision of his own funeral - an easy thing to visualize, with Percy's having been held days before. Like Percy, George pictured his funeral being held in the muggle style, with a casket and the deceased in formal wizarding robes, the whole deal. When he pictured the casket itself, and what he might wear as a final prank, he gasped. The face in his mind's eye, the vision of his own funeral, was _him _\- just as he was at that moment, to the last detail, clothes and all.

_If I don't do something, _George thought, _That's what I have waiting for me. _He almost stumbled on a curb as the thought hit him. _Is that what Fred would want? _

The thought crossed his mind, almost in response. _Not just yet._

Before he knew it, they had arrived at an old hotel near the financial district. George looked up, and saw the ornate letters worked into the metal that framed the revolving doors of the entrance.

"Welcome," Winston said, "to the Continental."

Winston had led George through the back office of the hotel, and into one of the service areas in the lower levels of the building. A nondescript steel door at the end of the hallways was their destination, it seemed.

After a knock, a grate opened and looked them over. When the eyes behind the steel saw the shorter man, the door opened immediately.

Off a quizzical look at George, Winston inclined his head. "He's with me." That, apparently, was good enough for the door man, and he stepped aside to allow them entry into what seemed to be a high-class muggle bar. A stage was set up for musicians to perform, and George could see this sort of space filling up rapidly in the evenings. Now, in the early afternoon, there were only a few patrons, mostly sitting near the bar.

Winston led him to a corner booth, clearly his regular seat. George saw that this particular booth had clear lines of sight with nearly every part of the room, allowing Winston to see what was happening without being obvious about it.

They had not been sitting for more than a minute before two drinks came out. The clear liquid had what looked like an lemon peel, and was served in a wide glass.

Winston took his drink and raised it. "I have to thank you again for saving my life today, Mister…?"

George took his own drink and returned the toast. "Weasley. George Weasley." Taking a sip, George decided that he liked whatever this drink was - and found himself wondering if the Leaky served it.

"Ah," said Winston, knowingly. "That would explain your reflexes, I take it. And your quite impressive situational awareness."

George set his drink down, his expression hardening. Clearly, this man knew something about him - something that came to mind with his name, but not his face. Then he remembered the earlier comment about the statute.

"Would it?" he said, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

"Oh, yes. Magical Britain recently had something of a civil war, I understand. Quite an unfortunate state of affairs." Winston kept his eyes on George as he spoke. "Had it continued, I fear there would have been a great deal of upheaval on the more mundane side of things."

"You're very well informed," said George.

Winston chuckled. "Mister Weasley, I have to be well informed if I want to do my job properly. You see, just as we cannot use the services of magicals in our work, we are in turn forbidden from working on behalf of magicals." He leaned forward, emphasizing his words. "Picture how your world would react to a team of assassins killing wizards with guns and knives and so forth. They would tear this establishment down around us, and my superiors with it."

Taking another sip of his drink, George nodded. "Your superiors couldn't let that go, could they?"

"No, Mister Weasley, they could not. It would be war, and while our resources are formidable, I worry that it would not be a war we could win." Winston gestured at the bar, including both the staff and the few patrons. "I have maintained stability and order in our industry for more than thirty years, through the Continental. We exercise a measure of control over the business of death for hire, because it is necessary. Killers running wild, unchecked, would only draw attention to our affairs." He raised his glass once more. "As you well know, Mister Weasley, there are some things best left out of the view of the public."

George had to concede the point. "Sometimes I think the magical world could use that sort of control."

Winston glanced down at his phone, which had lit up as they spoke. "Perhaps. If that were so, would Percival and Frederick still be with us?"

The shock of the statement kept George from reacting further, despite the impulse to draw his wand. Now that he knew more about this man, and this place, he knew such a move would be his last. That thought did little to calm his anger, however.

Before he could respond, Winston slid his phone over, so that George could read the display. There, in small text, was his name and the names of his friends and family. What struck him was that every name listed belonged to the dead. Percy, Audrey, Fred, even Alicia.

"Even as my guest, you must understand that I have to know who comes and goes in my own establishment, yes?" Winston's voice was apologetic, and George understood his reasoning. He didn't like it, of course, but he had little choice in the matter.

Winston continued, taking the phone back. "If this list is right, and your reaction tells me that it is, then the war's end has not stopped the killing." He looked thoughtful, as he looked at George. "What is it that you want, exactly?"

George took another drink, and failed to notice that his glass had been refilled.

"I don't know, Winston," he answered.

Winston scoffed. "You're not much of a liar, Mister Weasley." He was goading his guest, just a little, wanting to see what reaction he would get. Just as Winston was a mystery to George, George was a mystery to Winston. The High Table enforced the rule against hiring or being hired within the magical world, and it was one of the few inviolate rules there were in this industry. Winston, of course, knew that the rule was only inviolate because the High Table was unwilling to break it - one of the few of its rules to be taken so seriously.

George bristled at the accusation, mild though it was. "Sometimes I want to die, is that what you want to hear?"

Winston shook his head. "If that were the truth, then you would be dead already."

"You don't think I tried?!" The angry hiss from George drew the attention of three nearby patrons, all of whom stood as if in unison. A waved hand from Winston had them back in their seats just as quickly, but their presence had been revealed. It gave George a moment to calm himself, as the reality of his surroundings caused him to refocus on the topic.

Winston regarded him, only a raised eyebrow inviting him to continue.

George nearly whispered as he leaned forward. "We won the war, we defeated the dork lord, and when the bad guys were supposed to be rounded up and caged, they walked free. Oh, not all of them, but enough." He took another drink. "They kill whomever they want - traitors, families of their enemies, you name it. And no one will do anything." George looked up, his expression almost hopeful.

_Ah, there it is, _thought Winston. Part of him wanted to grant the unspoken request, just to see what would happen - the past few years had been dull, in comparison to the ones that came before. He could think of several young colleagues who might enjoy the challenge. But no, that was not possible. "We cannot solve this problem on your behalf, Mister Weasley."

George almost growled in anger. "Someone has to."

Winston sat back and smiled. "Indeed."

The moment stretched, and George stared openly at the man. "You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting, are you?" The idea of dealing with the Death Eaters was one he had thought about quite a lot over the past few months, but he was no Harry Potter. He was no auror. He was just half of a duo. What could _he _do?

"Not exactly," answered Winston, letting amusement creep into his voice. "You see, we are in an interesting position. I owe you a boon, in recognition of your services to me this morning. But I cannot act on your behalf." He leaned forward again, lowering his voice. "There is something I can offer you, however."

"What would that be?" asked George.

"Training."

oOoOoOoOo

_7 November 1998  
__The Continental  
__London, UK_

Winston's young assistant, a man named Charon, was the one who coined George's new name. They had taken to jogging in the mornings, and their conversations ranged widely across all manner of topics.

One morning in early November, George and Charon were eating breakfast at the Continental. George had never pried into Charon's personal history, getting the impression (correctly) that the topic was a painful one.

It made sense to George, which was part of why he left the topic alone. _What normal, well adjusted person would choose to become an assassin? _George wondered. _I mean, look at me. _

George's history did come up, as so much of his life was intertwined with that of his brother. After telling the story of his and Fred's glorious exit from Hogwarts, Charon sat back and nodded.

"So, you are Pollux, then. I see it now." His deep voice and exotic accent added certainty to the statement, as if saying the thing made it so.

"Pollux?" asked George.

Charon nodded. "The name I chose for myself is Greek. In their mythology, Charon was the ferryman who took the dead on his boat and guided them to the underworld." He smiled at George. "Fitting, wouldn't you say, for one who welcomes killers into the Continental?"

George had to agree that it was a well chosen name. Charon had no desire to kill, despite his exceptional skill at it. No, his goal was to learn from Winston, perhaps someday to become his apprentice and replace him. He valued the stability that the Continental provided, and saw no need to take part in the killing that resulted.

"Castor and Pollux were twins," Charon continued. "They had adventures and wrote their own legends, as one might expect. And then, Castor died." His level gaze focused on George as he told the tale. "Pollux remained behind, but found that he could not live half a life. In some accounts, he gave up his immortality to join his brother. In others, he merely gave up his life."

"Half of a whole," George said, quietly.

"Yes," said Charon. "It is a fitting name. An honourable one, I believe."

George found himself nodding. _Yes, _he thought to himself. _That name would do. _

oOoOoOoOo

_25 February 1999  
__Ministry Atrium  
__British Ministry of Magic_

Kingsley Shacklebolt did not know what to think, when his assistant told him that he was needed in the atrium. Then he got off of the elevator, and understood.

Thirteen left arms were arrayed around the fountain in the atrium. Each had the dark mark prominently displayed. In the dead hands of each, there was a wand.

"How?" was all that the Minister had to say, before one of his assistants brought him the note that had been found with the… remains.

_Thirteen murderers, thirteen wands.  
__How many lives did these wands take?  
__How many more death eaters still live free?  
__Do your job, Minister, or I will do mine. _

_Every death eater will pay the ferryman's fee. I swear it. _

_Pollux_

Kingsley could hear the growing crowd behind him, even as he heard the aurors struggling to keep order. Someone had brutally murdered thirteen witches and wizards, and he couldn't even identify who had been killed.

One of the investigators got the idea to check the wands, in hopes of identifying the owner. Kingsley watched the charm and saw the spells that the wand had performed - and knew that his day had just gotten more complicated. The oldest spell on the wand was the _Avada Kadavra_. As they went around the circle, they learned that every single wand had the killing curse, and most had the _Cruciatus_ as well. That put paid to the idea that these were innocent victims.

"Sir," said another auror. The young man handed Kingsley a coin. "Each hand was holding these, sir."

The coin appeared to be silver and gold. The silver inset showed a woman's face - the muggle Queen Elizabeth II. Around the outer edge of the coin, the text said _Two Pounds_.

"Baker?" said Kingsley, drawing the attention of one of the aurors. He held up the coin, catching the man's eye. "How many of these to the galleon?"

"At today's rates?" The auror thought for a moment. "Just about thirteen, sir."

"The ferryman's fee," said Kingsley, more to himself. "What the hell is going on?"

_And who in Merlin's name was Pollux? _

oOoOoOoOo

_1 April 1999  
__Diagon Alley_

When George Weasley opened the back door to his flat that morning, he found Harry Potter waiting for him.

"Hello, Harry," he said cautiously. They had not spoken since christmas, and George had been busy.

"Hello, George," replied Harry. His tone told George exactly why he was sitting on a bin in the alleyway, waiting for him.

They stood there, looking at each other, for more than a minute. Harry's expression was a study in contrasts - clear relief at George's condition (awake and intact), mixed with uncertainty. But about what, George could not tell. _Does he know? _

He decided to break the silence. "You want to come in, mate? I haven't had much chance to clean, but…" George trailed off at a gesture from Harry.

"Not today, I'm probably just as busy as you are." Harry's reply did little to ease George's worry. Standing, Harry produced a small package from his robes. "I was in the alley, and figured I'd drop off your birthday present."

George stared at the package, and then at his friend. The blank look in his eyes told Harry everything - George had not even known the date.

With a polite smile, George took the package. It was heavier than it looked, but small enough to tuck under one arm. "Thanks, Harry."

Harry nodded, acknowledging the comment. The uncertainty remained on his face, and the silence began to stretch out once more. George said nothing, not trusting himself to keep the secret of his activities of late.

Again, it was Harry who broke the silence. "Right, well, I'd best be going, then." He held out his hand to George. "Take care of yourself, George."

Taking the hand, George smiled back. "You too, Lord Potter." Then he chuckled at Harry's reaction, and the rolled eyes that usually followed the use of his title.

Once Harry had left, George made his way back up the stairs. He began opening the package on his kitchen table, not sure what he'd find.

Inside the box was a large bottle of amber liquid. The label told him that it was scotch from a place called…. _Ah, that explains it. _"Potter Distillery," read George. Apparently, Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes was not the only business that the Potters invested in these days.

When he set the bottle back in the box, he heard the crunch of what sounded like parchment. Eyes narrowed, he removed the bottle and the packaging that held it in place. Underneath, he found several sheets of muggle paper, each with a neat list of names and locations printed on it. The letters were precise and even, telling George that it had come from one of the muggle devices like those he had seen at the Continental.

The names began to register with George, at that point, and he realized that he recognized them. Merlin, he recognized most of them. Each and every one was a Death Eater, or believed to be one.

There was a small card inserted into the stack. Lifting it up, George let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

_George,_

_Good Hunting. _

_HJP_

* * *

_**A/N: **_**This story will be three chapters in response to a prompt from Reddit and the DP&SW Discord. _"_**_**Years after the war, George Weasley has become the John Wick of the Potterverse. **_**_One day, someone kills his dog."_ No, Astoria is not the dog. Neither is Percy. Let it stand that George isn't borderline alcoholic and catatonic because of one tragedy, but because of the sum of many. I considered calling this "How a murder spree helped George Weasley get his groove back," but decided against it. There are quite a few "George has the sads after the war" stories out there, but very few of them take a look at the "George is a drunk and becomes an assassin to sober up" angle. **

**Originally, this wasn't a full crossover with the John Wick universe, but Winston and Charon are too good of characters to ignore. If they say they are in the story, you'd best believe they're in the story. Who am I to argue?**

**I want to post this partially to motivate me, and partially to keep me from tinkering it into oblivion. It also means that I can shift over to one of the chapters I have in progress for my other stories without feeling like I'm abandoning this one. **

**Next time: Adventures in structural engineering, as well as the enchanting Enchantress Astoria Greengrass. **

**Feedback, as always, is welcome. **


	2. A Loss of Focus

_27 June 1999  
__Greengrass Manor  
__Wales, UK_

As he walked up from the front gate, Draco Malfoy saw the smoke rising into the sky from what remained of Greengrass Manor.

His only thought, as he broke into a run, was to hope that Astoria was safe.

The doors to the manor house were in splinters, surrounded by the scorch marks of spellfire. What had seemed at a distance to be a bundle of rags was actually the corpse of a house elf, laying on the front step where it had fallen. Carefully, with his wand out, Draco stepped over the remains and walked into the foyer.

There, in the middle of the room, lay three bodies. Each had been covered in a white sheet. Draco heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the blonde hair trailing from underneath one of the sheets; the other bodies were far too tall to have been his betrothed.

He stepped forward to get a better look. The spell hit him before he could react, and he found himself frozen in place. Looking around, he saw a very angry brunette standing in a doorway on his right, her wand held at the ready.

"How DARE you come here, today of all days, Draco Malfoy!" She shouted. "Did you come here to finish the job, is that it?"

Draco found that he could speak, though he could not turn his head to address the witch directly. "I missed you on the train yesterday," he said. "I wanted to see why you did not sit with me."

Astoria scoffed. "My parents are dead, Draco. My sister is dead. And you're here because your _feelings _are hurt?" Not once did her wand waver, nor did her attention move from him in the slightest.

"We're betrothed, Tori, we should have sat together."

As Astoria spoke, the rage intensified in her voice, something Draco had not thought possible. "Your father ordered mine to vote with him in the Wizengamot, because of the betrothal. Father refused. So they burned down his shop in the Alley. Still, he refused." She gestured at the wrecked entrance hall, and the three bodies. "So your father and his lads came over last night, after the train arrived at Kings Cross. Daphne came home right away, but I stayed the night with some yearmates."

"Which ones?" Draco asked, without thinking.

"Like I'd tell someone like _you,_" she spat. The utter hatred in those words stunned Draco. She took a deep breath and continued. "They weren't content to just torture Father, no - Lord Malfoy decided that we needed to be made an example of. So he threatened to give Daphne to his friends."

Draco sighed, and did his best to sound sincere as he replied. "I'm sorry, Tori." He sighed again, theatrically, before continuing. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

He did not notice the glare that Astoria gave him at those words. Later, he would wonder why he had kept talking - why hadn't he just shut up, right then?

In a quiet voice, Astoria responded. "How was it supposed to go, exactly?"

"They were supposed to leave Daphne alone, so that she could hold the Greengrass seat." His head shifted slightly, the closest he could come to shaking his head while frozen in place. "If he had agreed to work with us, none of this would have happened."

"So, you knew?"

Draco did not notice the danger in the witch's voice, to his regret.

"I am the Heir Malfoy, Tori. The future Lord Malfoy, just as you are the future Lady Malfoy. I have to know these things, don't you see?"

"I do see," she said, in a sad and defeated tone. She lowered her wand, closing her eyes. "And if you could have stopped the attack, could have saved my parents… Draco, if you could have saved Daphne, would you have?"

Draco was speaking before he could even think about his answer. "Having you in the Greengrass seat gives us control of the votes we need to take back the balance of power and end Potter's maneuvers once and for all. I regret the necessity, but really this is for the best."

"Tell me that's enough." Astoria said, harshly. Draco's eyes grew wide as he heard a reply - from the other side of the room.

"More than enough, Miss Greengrass." Draco tried to turn his head to the left, with limited success. He stopped when he saw the auror cross into his field of view. The woman glared at him as she passed, a sheet of parchment and a quill floating behind her.

Astoria bowed her head to the Auror. "Thank you, Auror Hamilton. That charm worked quite well."

"Not at all, I'm just glad I was here when he stopped by." The dark-haired auror looked at Draco with a pitying expression. "That charm isn't as good as veritaserum, but when you can hit your target without their knowledge? They sing and sing and sing."

"Astoria?" Draco sputtered. Even now, standing over the bodies of his betrothed's family, he still could not fathom her betrayal. She was, after all, bound to him by law and magic, wasn't she? It never occurred to him that any agreement had been shattered once his father caused the previous day's attack.

Astoria had toed the line at school, hoping to see in Draco the brilliant slytherin she had fallen for so long ago. The boy whose eyes lit up when she walked in, and who wanted little more than to finish a mastery and see the world. Instead, what she got was an embittered pureblood heir, enraged at his lot in a post war world and convinced that things would have been better if the Dark Lord had won.

As the magic suppressing cuffs were placed on his wrists, Draco vowed that he would make her understand why it had to be this way - and why she had no choice in the matter.

oOoOoOoOo

_28 June 1999  
__Malfoy Manor  
__Wiltshire, UK_

"This is a disaster!"

Narcissa Malfoy heard her husband's shout of anger from the adjacent sitting room. The men were in his study, as usual, but tonight she had not had the stomach for their plots and plans.

Tonight, she mourned her son.

Draco had been given probation after the war, on the condition that he not associate with any criminal activity and that he attend Hogwarts for his eighth year. For the most part, he had focused on his studies and his slowly growing relationship with the younger of the Greengrass sisters.

Lucius, meanwhile, had been placed on house arrest. Unable to walk the Ministry and wield his influence, he was forced to act behind the scenes through surrogates. The results were mediocre at best. No one wanted to openly associate with a family of convicted war criminals, and the list of families willing to do so in private was a short one. The only reason the Greengrasses had consented to the betrothal in the first place was that their daughter had genuine feelings for Draco.

At least, she had before she got home from Hogwarts.

Narcissa did not know what possessed her husband and what remained of the Death Eaters to threaten her son's future in-laws. That they seemed to have gotten away with it was pure dumb luck.

No, what had her worried now was the fact that Draco had gone to the scene of the crime, admitted to the only surviving Greengrass that he had known about the attack in advance, and that he _approved _of the result, and done all of this _in front of an -auror!_ Even associating with criminals or criminal activity would violate his probation, so what did he think would happen with this?

Literally the day after he finished Hogwarts, Draco talked his way into five years in Azkaban.

Narcissa had no idea what she could do about it. Her only play was a direct appeal to Harry Potter, the Man-Who-Conquered - and that had gone about as well as it could have.

"_People on both sides of the war continue to die, Lady Malfoy," Potter had said. "There isn't anything I can do." _

_For her son, she played her only remaining card. "What if I renounce Lucius?" _

_Potter shook his head. "Anything the DMLE would want from you would still be hidden behind oaths and vows. No, Madam, that snitch flew away long ago." _

"_Draco is my son," she hissed, her anger coming to the fore. _

_The man-who-conquered held his ground, arms folded across his Wizengamot robes. "And Daphne Greengrass was someone's daughter." He looked down at her, pity in his eyes. "Go to Godric's Hollow, Narcissa. Walk up the path, where my parents' cottage once stood, and read the names etched into the war memorial we built there. Every one of those witches and wizards were someone's child, or parent, or lover, or friend. Your master ended them all." _

_As Potter walked away, Narcissa heard his last sentence over and over again. "Draco had his shot, and he blew it. I'm sorry." _

More angry shouts came from the study, and Narcissa realized that Lucius and his 'associates' were starting to goad themselves into action. _Do they not realize that the actions they talk themselves into are the reason our son is in Azkaban? _

If a true Slytherin walked in at that moment, he would rule them all. And they would follow right along. She shook her head sadly, taking another drink of her wine. _Such a waste._

As her thoughts turned to what might have been, she heard a tapping on the window. Sitting there, looking intently at her, was a tiny reddish-brown owl. She tilted her head at the creature, and smiled in spite of her mood when the owl matched her gesture. It was not clear why the owl was there, and in the darkness outside the window she could not see if it carried a message.

Opening the window, she stepped aside and allowed the owl to enter. With a flap of its wings, the small owl flew to a nearby table. In the light, Narcissa saw that it was a pygmy owl, the sort one gets for a child as their first post owl. Instead of the usual white highlights, this owl seemed to have streaks of red against the more typical brown.

There was a note tied to its foot with a small, black ribbon. When her hand came close, the ribbon seemed to untie itself, and the note dropped into her hand. It was a small piece of parchment, perfect for a small owl.

_Madam Malfoy,_

_Gathered in your home are the last of the death eaters. Every surviving member not in prison is sitting in your husband's study. Their lives are now forfeit. _

_As you never took the mark, I give you this warning as a courtesy. _

_You have about three minutes to gather whatever you can carry and leave. If you remain, you will share your husband's fate. If you attempt to warn him in any way, you will share your husband's fate. If you attempt to stand with him or defend him from what is to come, you will share your husband's fate. _

_Do the smart thing. Do what you should have done long ago. Run as far and as fast as you can._

_Pollux_

The note dropped from Narcissa's trembling hand. Pollux, the Ferryman, the scourge of the death eaters, was coming here. Her eyes went to the doorway, where the men continued their arguing unaware of the fate that awaited them.

Over the past five months, over sixty death eaters had been killed in brutal fashion. Wives who took the mark but stayed well away from the war found themselves slain alongside their husbands, their marked arms deposited in the Ministry atrium every time. A few unmarked supporters of the Dark Lord had died as well, usually when they were found among the marked. Draco had been fortunate that so many of his surviving friends remained unmarked, or else his year at Hogwarts would have been decimated.

Pollux was the reason she had wanted Lucius to step away from the activities of his friends. Intimidation, extortion, followed shortly by assaults like the one that ended the Greengrasses - every crime put that much more scrutiny on those who bore the mark. It was only a matter of time before Pollux visited Malfoy Manor.

She looked at the owl, and saw that it had watched her closely as she read the letter. "When is your master coming?"

For the rest of her life, she would not understand why she asked that question, or what response she expected. What she got shook her to the core.

The owl looked at her intently, its eyes narrowing, before pointing one of its tiny wings toward the study door. She followed the gesture, and then looked back at the owl. When their eyes met once more, the owl pointed its wing at the floor, as if to say _Now_.

Narcissa's eyes grew wide. "Now?" she whispered.

"Prek," replied the owl.

That was good enough for Narcissa. With one final glance toward the study, and a sad sigh at the fate of her late husband, the Lady Malfoy turned and left the room.

The owl watched her go, tilting its head in thought. Then it jumped off of the chair, allowing the magic to take hold in the air. With an ease learned after many hours of practice, George Weasley's boots landed on the soft rug with hardly any noise at all.

Charon had laughed at his animagus form, once he got his head around the idea of a man turning into an animal. He was forced to admit, though, that it was always easier to enter a target's home when they let him in willingly. And it helped that no one had wards against owls, these days. Against howlers, sure. Harmful mail, or mail from certain senders, absolutely. But those wards did not apply when the owl was an animagus.

It was a prank worthy of the marauders. Not for the first time, George hoped that Fred appreciated the humor of it.

Reaching up, George slid his glasses onto his face. The enchanted eyewear had taken quite a bit of work, but the result was worth it, as they allowed him to see through a cloud of darkness powder as if it were transparent. The death eaters would not be so well equipped, to their regret.

With powder in one hand, and wand in the other, George was ready. With a flick of his wand, the study door vanished. Banishing the door into the room might be flashy and distracting, but vanishing the door was silent. As a result, only the death eater facing him saw.

A piercing hex struck right between the man's eyes. The spray of blood that followed was the last thing that the death eaters saw before darkness surrounded them.

oOoOoOoOo

_1 July 1999  
__Ministry of Magic  
__Wizengamot Chambers_

The massacre at Malfoy Manor did not go over well with the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot.

Some feared that they would be targeted next, regardless of their political leanings. Others worried that letting this vigilante get away with their crimes would just encourage the next one. A few even wanted to call up the ICW and have them look into this Pollux.

Harry scoffed at that idea. Where was the interest in calling the ICW when Voldemort was building his army? The same army, he noted, that Pollux had decimated single-handedly within half a year?

"Pollux targeted the death eaters, as we have seen every time his work is displayed in the atrium." Harry stood on the floor of the chamber, his purple robes helping to exaggerate every movement. His eyes swept the room, noting the number of empty seats yet to be filled. "He told us this, from the beginning. So no, I do not worry that the mysterious Pollux will come for me."

"We can't just let him keep killing!" shouted one of the neutral members, an older wizard Harry did not know.

Instead of replying, Harry turned to Connie Hammer, who had recently taken over at the DMLE. "Director Hammer," Harry said. "How many marked death eaters remain?"

Hammer smirked - she had enjoyed watching Pollux work. As soon as she heard Harry's question, his intent was clear, and so she played along. "In or out of Azkaban, My Lord?"

Harry smiled up at her. "Both, if you please."

With a nod, the Director stood. "We have thirty-two death eaters in custody, including Draco Malfoy, who violated his parole last week - a mistake that probably saved his life, incidentally. His is the shortest sentence, at five years."

"Good, good," acknowledged Harry. "And outside of the prison?"

The Director's grin was predatory. "My Lord, to the best of our knowledge, there are currently no marked death eaters in Britain, apart from those in Azkaban."

"I see," replied Harry. "Thank you, Madam Director." He turned to the membership, his hands spread wide. "I don't believe Pollux will continue to kill when there is no one left to target, do you?"

oOoOoOoOo

_1 July 1999  
__Potter Manor  
__Wales_

When Harry Potter returned from the Wizengamot meeting, the sun had already set. Stepping out of the fireplace, he was greeted by a very anxious house elf.

"Master Harry, sirs, Mister half wheezy is in the lounge, and he bes making himself sicks, sir."

The elves had taken to calling George 'half wheezy' since the war, a title that Harry thought to be a little morbid. They replied that his magic was ragged and broken, missing pieces. An all too accurate description of George Weasley these days, it seemed.

Stepping into the lounge, Harry saw the trademark red hair of his friend. George was reclining on one of the leather couches in the center of the room, his eyes closed. As Harry approached, he saw that there was already one empty bottle of firewhiskey sitting on the table, with a full - unopened - bottle next to it.

George did not open his eyes on Harry's approach, but his wand was in his hand nonetheless. A few orange sparks leapt from the wand, before it dropped to the floor. George made no move to pick it up.

"I did it, Harrikins," George said, quietly.

"So I heard," said harry, cautiously. Setting his Wizengamot robes on the back of a chair, he took the seat across from George, looking him over. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, mate," came the tired reply. "Never better."

"I'll have to get you to teach me some of your tricks, sometime." Harry remarked, hoping to get George to focus on prank hexes and trick spells that might come in handy, perhaps at the joke shop.

"Maybe," George slurred. "The trick is to have focus, Harry, and total commitment. Because once you dip a toe into these waters, they grab you and drag you in." He sighed, wiping a hand across his face, his eyes still closed. "He warned me, you know."

"Who warned you, George?" asked Harry.

"Winston," he replied. "Picture a muggle with vast international connections, like Dumbledore. Someone who knows which rules he can bend, and which rules he can ignore, like McGonagall when she was head of house. Then add in Flitwick's sense of humor." He smiled, as if thinking of a private joke. "You'd like him."

"I probably would," Harry said, cautiously. "What does he do?"

"Oh, not much. Just manages a hotel for hired killers in muggle Britain." He half shrugged at the admission. "You can learn a lot from the professionals, you know."

"I'll bet you can," agreed Harry. That explained… well, quite a lot, actually.

"They taught me everything, Harry," George continued, his voice growing tired. "There was an American who worked with me in February, quiet fellow. He told me that every movement had to be exactly the right size, or else I'd waste my time and get killed."

"The right size?"

"Yeah, think of it this way." George looked up, blearily, and waved a hand toward Harry. It was clear that he did not realize that his wand was not in the hand, but George didn't seem to care just then. "If I'm in a fight, you know, and I have to move my wand from target to target, I have to make each move as quickly as possible. Every move that I don't need to make is wasted time and energy, because it's time that I'm not spending on a target."

Once he got around George's drunken delivery, the advice was sound, and Harry found himself nodding. "I see," he said.

"Winston told me a story about that guy, Harry. He had to go to a bar and kill a bad guy. Russian, sold kids, bad bloke. They took his guns at the door, so he had no weapons. No wand, no gun, no knives, nothing. You know what he did?" Again, George's eyes pulled themselves open, and he looked over at Harry. "He killed three of them with a pencil, mate. Like, that'd be like if I took out the Carrows with a bloody quill, you know?"

"That's pretty impressive," said Harry. He couldn't tell how much of this was truth and how much was a very drunk George exaggerating. He stood up and stretched his arms out, yawning loudly as he did so. "You tired, George?"

George's amusement seemed to fade. "I've been tired for a year now, Harrikins." He kicked his feet up onto the table, knocking over the empty bottle in the process. "So tired, mate."

"Plenty of time to rest now, George," Harry said quietly. "Let's get you to bed."

"Nah, you have a nice couch, Harry." George said, leaning back and yawning. "Fred'd like it, wouldn't you?"

Harry stood there, unsure how to respond. George settled the matter with a loud snore.

When the house elves had popped George away to a guest room, and after agreeing to keep an eye on him through the night, Harry sat back down. Pouring himself a drink, he thought about everything that George had done, and wondered what it would cost him.

_I'll have to talk to Ron, _he thought. _The last thing George needs to be is alone. Not now, not after all of this. _

It was a long time before Harry went to bed that night.

oOoOoOoOo

_22 February 2001  
__Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes  
__Diagon Alley_

Standing at the top of the staircase in his brother's shop, Ron Weasley looked down at the half dozen wizards who had gathered below. If he had been asked to list six mates to go drinking with the week before his wedding, only a couple of these wizards would have been in the running.

Only one person who should have been there, wasn't. And it was a shame, too, seeing as he lived behind the shop.

George had spent more and more time on his own, these past few years. At first, Harry and Ron had been willing to let it continue, knowing how much he had lost during the war.

They also knew how much his months as Pollux had taken out of him. While it was clear that he had an almost unsurpassed skill at killing, they also knew that he had no taste for it. He had not enjoyed his task, but had set himself to it with a will - and, in the end, accomplished what the Ministry could not.

Harry and Ron knew how much that weighed on him. If he needed time to get back on his feet, they'd give him time. Of course, inviting someone who seemed to have developed a drinking problem to go out to drink was a little worrying to Ron, but he reasoned that the time spent with friends would help his brother more at the moment than a night of sobriety.

He was willing to take small steps, if George was as well. That, of course, seemed to be where the problem lay.

A bell sounded, as the door to Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes opened. Lee Jordan stepped through, a grin on his face. Ron tilted his head, wondering what was happening.

"You lot will never guess who I found skulking about the alley!" He said, excitement in his voice. Lee stepped aside, revealing the wizard who had followed him in.

"I was not skulking," groused George. He seemed annoyed, but only just. When his eyes strayed up and saw his brother on the stairs, he grinned. "Oi, there's the doomed man now. Hullo, Ronnikins!"

It was a flash of the old George, one he had not thought to see again anytime soon. Ron shared a glance with Harry, who grinned right back.

The night was off to a good start.

oOoOoOoOo

_23 February 2001  
__Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes  
__Diagon Alley_

The banging in George Weasley's head matched the insistent banging on the back door to his flat. Not for the first time, he regretted adding that feature. Fred had insisted, though, saying that he didn't want to have to bring his guests through the shop if he wanted to take them home.

George had replied that if they had a problem with the shop, they weren't worth bringing home. Fred had agreed immediately, but still wanted the back door. So, a back door was installed.

And now someone was banging on it.

"Hold on!" George shouted as he put shoes on. Standing, he steadied himself on the railing, before slowly making his way down the back stairs. When he opened the door, he saw an annoyed witch glaring at him.

The witch had to be Ginny's age, or maybe even younger. She was a full foot shorter than he was, with delicate porcelain skin framed by dark brown hair. Her dark blue robes were covered by a thick canvas apron splattered with various colors of what had to be paint. Her bright blue eyes were focused on his, and it took him a moment to realize that she was mad at him.

She was beautiful.

George gave the only response he could, in that moment. He yawned a great gaping yawn. When he opened his eyes again, she was still there, arms crossed.

"G'morning," he said, hoping his voice was not too bleary. It was early enough in the morning that he still felt a little drunk from the previous night.

The woman was having none of it. "The girl in the joke shop said that you're the owner." Her tone was all business, something that George really didn't have the head for this morning.

"One of them, yes." He stifled another yawn. "And you are?"

"I'm bloody annoyed, is what I am," was the reply. "You're messing with my shop."

"Am I?" George responded. When she huffed at him in response, he frowned.

"You are," she snapped. "Fix it."

_It's way too early for this, _he thought. "Will you be at your shop this afternoon?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I need it fixed now."

"I'm sure you do," he said, evenly. "But I'm not going to mess with whatever is causing you problems while I'm still drunk from last night. So I'll see you at one."

He could tell that she wanted to argue, but then she rolled her eyes. "Fine," she snapped.

"Fine," he replied. "So, where is this shop we've been messing with?"

The surprise in her features caught him off guard. "You mean, you didn't notice when I bought the building next to yours and renovated it?" He could hear the annoyance in her voice. "You didn't notice when we had a grand opening last week?"

"Clearly not," he said, defensively. "So, next door, then?"

"Merlin," she muttered, turning to walk away. "One o'clock!" she yelled, before stomping off.

oOoOoOoOo

A hot shower and several cups of coffee later, George Weasley was ready to get to work. Before he went and met his very angry new neighbor, however, he decided to have a look at his own shop. If they were actually doing something that had an effect on his neighbor, then yes he did want to fix it. But what could it be? He ran a bloody joke shop.

Of course, saying that he ran the joke shop wasn't strictly true, these days. The day-to-day was handled by a few hired clerks. Gringott's kept the books at discount rates, thanks to Bill's recommendation. Ron had made it into the Auror corps by this point, but he still found time to spend the occasional night or two with Dean Thomas and Lee Jordan working on new ideas for products.

It was one of those products that George found mounted on the common wall between his shop and the new neighbor. The boys had come up with a version of the Thief's Downfall used at Gringott's. Instead of removing all enchantments and potions from anyone who passed through the layer of mist, however, this version would apply glamours at random. One person might have their hair turn green, while the next might seem to shrink a foot or more.

The idea was ingenious and clever - exactly the sort of thing Fred would have loved. It was also very chaotic magic, since it interfered with any magic it encountered. So, the fact that one was mounted on the wall next to the neighbor's shop? Yes, that could very easily interfere with whatever was on the other side of that wall.

With a clerk's help, George had the display shifted to the center of the store, clearing a path around it in the process. Now, visitors could walk through the archway and see exactly what it did. And if the unprepared wandered through without noticing the archway? _Then they should be more careful, _George thought. _It's a joke shop after all._

Walking out onto Diagon Alley, George looked to his left and took in the new neighbor. _Greengrass Portraiture, _he read on the sign. Immediately, George knew who the witch had been, for there was only one Greengrass left after the summer of '99. _Astoria, wasn't it? _

The windows of the shop seemed to have portrait frames of all sizes, though only a few were occupied. Wizarding portraits were finicky pieces of magic, easily disrupted if their frames were damaged, or if someone cast spells at them, or if they were charmed in some way. George sighed as he thought it through - yes, something like that archway could easily have disrupted portraits on the other side of the wall.

"Bugger," said George to himself. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and entered the shop.

Inside, the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with paintings of all types. Indoor scenes, outdoor scenes, wizards in modern robes chatting with witches whose clothing had to be from centuries past. It was a cacophony, though most of the portraits seemed used to speaking in hushed tones, so that the noise did not grow to be overwhelming.

Turning, he saw that the wall where the archway would have been mounted faced the sales counter. As he walked over to that wall, he saw that only one of the dozen or so frames on that wall was occupied. The small frame was mounted in the center of the wall, and depicted a solemn blonde girl in slytherin robes. Blue eyes looked out from the frame, the sort of eyes that missed nothing. George realized that they matched the witch from earlier, making this an ancestor, perhaps?

"I moved some things around in the joke shop," George said. Even if the subjects of a wizarding portrait were not present, they could usually hear what was said near their frame. His best guess was that the subjects all noticed something odd with the magic along their wall, and escaped to other frames. "Everything should be better now."

The blonde witch seemed to glare at him, from her frame, and George revised his earlier guess. He had seen that same glare earlier in the day, and had no wish to see it again.

"My apologies, dear lady," he said, addressing the blonde. His response was a pair of rolled eyes.

"Knock it off, Daph," a voice came from the back of the shop.

George turned to see the witch coming from a back room, looking at him. She was wiping her hands off on a towel, which was then deposited in a bin filled with them. As he watched, she walked up to him and looked him over, judgement in her gaze.

He stood there quietly, watching her in turn.

Presently, she stuck out a hand. "Astoria Greengrass."

George relaxed a little. At the back of his mind, he knew that Astoria was not a witch he wanted mad at him. He took her hand, surprising her by shaking it, rather than kissing it as a pureblood might. "George Weasley."

"Ginny Weasley's brother, I assume?" she said. "Ginny was in my year."

"Ah," George replied, smiling at the mention of his sister. "My condolences."

Astoria rolled her eyes. "Don't be an idiot." She gestured at the wall. "Did you figure out what you did?"

"What _I_ did?" he asked, amused. "One of my clerks moved some product along that wall, and it might have messed with your portraits. That's it."

"Ah, so it _was _you?"

"I didn't say that, Miss Greengrass," George said, smiling at her. "If it managed to improve your paintings, then yes I'd take the credit. But since it didn't, I blame my staff."

Astoria couldn't help but smirk at that. "So is your staff going to fix the problem, then?"

Now George grinned at her. "Nope."

That got another glare. "And why not, Mister Weasley?"

He leaned over and tapped on the wall. "Because I already did." As she watched, several witches and wizards tentatively peeked around the edges of their frames. Each seemed to sigh in relief, before taking their usual places in the settings of each portrait.

Astoria's eyes were wide. "How?"

George chuckled. "I performed an emergency adjustment of the ambient magical field across the shop floor."

"You did what?"

"...I moved the thing that was messing with your stuff."

"Oh," Astoria said. "Well, that seems to have done it, I think."

"Looks that way." He leaned closer to the wall, examining one of the frames. "Brilliant work on some of these, I have to say."

"Thank you," Astoria replied, automatically.

George looked over at her, one eyebrow raised. "Your work?"

Astoria nodded. "After graduation, I studied enchanting for a year in Zurich."

_That was impressive, _George thought. "Not many people our age with masteries, you should be proud."

"Who says I'm not?" replied Astoria.

"Not me," answered George, as he continued to look over the frame. "You know, we had some ideas about ways to let one set of portraits force its way into another, sort of as a way to pull off a prank."

Astoria shook her head dismissively. "The runes are a closed loop, to prevent exactly that. That's why you have to link the frames directly, unless you're in a big manor house or someplace like Hogwarts."

"Usually, yes, but not if you bypass the fifth rune cluster." George answered. "See, Fred figured out a way to…" His voice trailed off, and he looked up at Astoria. "I mean, I'll have to look at my notes, see if my brother ever worked it out."

It was clear to Astoria that something painful had come up, in that moment. She chose not to press the issue. "I'd be interested in seeing that, Mister Weasley."

George nodded, not wanting to keep discussing the issue. "I'll make sure that you do, Miss Greengrass."

Astoria offered her version of a typical pureblood curtsey. The effect was altered somewhat, in that she was wearing a heavy apron and her hands were stained with paint and potion alike. George couldn't help but chuckle at the flippant gesture.

"You know," he began. "I was a bit of a prat earlier." He bowed to her, in as exaggerated a fashion as he could. "Perhaps I could make it up to you somehow?"

"Oh?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. "However would you accomplish such a feat?"

It was a spur of the moment decision, one he had not considered in full before it was leaving his mouth. Nevertheless, in the years to come, George would not regret the impulsive choice.

"Can I buy you lunch?" Off her surprised look, he gestured at the still half-empty portraits behind him. "It will take some time before your shop is back to normal. And I do owe you a proper welcome to the neighborhood, seeing as how we're neighbors and all."

His smile was disarming, she realized, and it was hard to say no. She had work to do, and an order to fill, and she was behind on her work thanks to whatever nonsense his shop had caused in hers. To her surprise, she was answering him before she had even thought about it.

"Lunch would be delightful," she replied.

George grinned. "Brilliant."

* * *

**_A/N_: I swear, this wasn't intended as a "George vs Alcoholism" story. But it's a parallel between George Weasley here and John Wick, where both grow uncomfortable with their self-imposed roles. John Wick falls in love, and leaves the world of assassins, while George leaves the world of assassins to fall in love. The more I think about it, "How a Murder Spree helped George Weasley get his groove back" might have been a more apt title than I first realized. **

**I'm going to get some angry reviews about Daphne. Doubt anyone will spare a thought for the poor Greengrass parents, but Daphne? Come on, how could I do that? Well, Draco spent seven years - eight, really, since both went back for their last year after the war - with Daphne Greengrass, and when she got killed by the remaining death eaters, he shrugged. And, as we see, she's not out of the story just because she was killed. **

**As for our lad Draco, well - if there were a scale of Draco Malfoys in fanfiction that ran from "Polite and easily redeemed" to "Gleeful murdering shit", this Draco would fall closer to the latter. Draco and Astoria work quite well, sometimes. This isn't one of those stories. **

**Feedback, as always, is welcome.**


	3. Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

_1 April 2001  
__Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes  
__Diagon Alley, London_

At the knock on his office door, George looked up to see one of his clerks standing in the doorway.

"There's a woman here to see you, boss," he said.

George nodded, closing his notebook and setting down his quill. "Anyone we know, Nick?"

Nick shrugged. "I've seen her in the alley before, but never spoken with her." He paused, before lowering his voice. "I don't think I'd want to get her mad at me, that's for sure."

An eyebrow raised, George considered that. "Right, let's see who it is, then."

Nick walked down the staircase and back to his work, while George lingered a bit on the landing. Most of the people in the shop were chatting away about this or that product, while younger patrons ran here and there. George smiled at that - they had always wanted this shop to be fun, even for the people who bought nothing.

Then his eyes caught a flash of brilliant blue, and he was looking at Astoria Greengrass. She smiled up at him when she saw him, and he found himself grinning in turn. Their impromptu lunch six weeks ago had turned into a regular outing, every Monday, and both had found themselves looking forward to each meal together.

George walked down the stairs, where Astoria was waiting. "You're early, Miss Greengrass," he said.

She gestured at the bustling shop. "I thought I'd stop by and see what all the fuss was about. After all," she looked back at him, mischief in her eyes. "You aren't exactly the quietest of neighbors, are you?"

With a laugh, George gave her a bow. "We aim to please."

After receiving the grand tour of the joke shop, the pair found themselves in George's office. To his surprise, Astoria removed a small package from her robes and handed it to him.

"Happy Birthday, George," she said.

George looked from her to the present, and back. "How did you know?"

She rolled her eyes. "I was in Slytherin, Mister Weasley, I have my sources."

"Oh, of that I have no doubt," quipped George. Taking the present, he set it on his desk and opened it. Inside was a small portrait. The blonde woman in the painting looked familiar, as if George had seen her recently.

"Daphne approves of you," Astoria said, watching him examine the portrait. "She suggested that I give you a frame for her portrait, so that she can get to know you better."

George looked up at his guest. "Did she?"

Astoria nodded. "If she were here, she'd be doing the big sister thing and making sure that you were good enough for me. This is the next best thing." Her voice had only a hint of sadness at the mention of her deceased sister, but it was a hint that George recognized in his own voice whenever he talked about Fred.

Once George had hung the portrait in a place of honor above his desk, he turned to Astoria. "Thank you, Astoria."

As she had the day they met, Astoria offered an exaggerated curtsey - a move that never failed to get a chuckle out of her red-haired neighbor. Today was no exception. She enjoyed getting him to laugh, which was an odd thing to think about a man who ran a joke shop. The reality was that George Weasley hadn't been all that terribly inclined to laugh at the little things when she met him, but the past six weeks had started to change that.

The fact that he could make her laugh just as easily was merely a bonus. It went unsaid that she had been just as unlikely to laugh openly before meeting George.

They had quite a bit in common. Both knew it.

"Do you have plans tonight, birthday boy?" Astoria asked with a smirk.

"Not really, no," answered George.

"Good," she replied. "You do now."

George tilted his head at her. "I do?"

She smiled back at him. "Of course. I'm taking you to dinner." Astoria stepped toward the door, before looking over her shoulder. "Coming?"

He gave the only answer he could - the correct one. "Of course, Miss Greengrass."

oOoOoOoOo

Astoria had found a muggle restaurant not far from the Alley - an easy walk in the early spring weather of London. She picked a table in the back of the restaurant, and said nothing when George took the seat next to her - the one with its back to the wall.

They had both been in a war. Little things such as that did not bother her. She did the same thing herself on occasion, and it made George more comfortable. The fact that he was now sitting next to her didn't bother her either.

He allowed her to order for him, having never had authentic Italian food before. To his surprise, she ordered in fluent Italian, thus leaving him with no idea what would be coming.

When the bottle of wine came out, George poured them each a glass. He had not expected her to raise her glass, as if to toast, but raised his own in turn.

"It's your birthday, Mister Weasley," she said formally. "But I find myself wanting to toast to us." She turned her blue eyes onto his, as if trying to divine his thoughts on the matter. "These past few weeks have been wonderful, and I'd like to spend more time with you."

George could not help but grin. "Why, Miss Greengrass, are you asking me out on a date?"

Astoria rolled her eyes again - she did that quite a lot when she was with him, but neither seemed to mind. Then she gestured with her glass. "I rather think we're past the asking, aren't we?"

He had to concede that. "There's that," he allowed. He held her gaze, not wanting to say yes immediately. He needed to know that she had thought this through. "Astoria, it's been a long time for me. I don't know how good of a boyfriend I'll be."

She scoffed at that. "George, my last boyfriend was Draco bloody Malfoy. I guarantee you, by any standard, you're superior to that piece of rubbish."

"Miss Greengrass," he said gently, "The contents of my used potions cauldrons are superior to that git." His smile faded a bit. "I just don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," was her firm reply. She lifted her glass once more, and smiled when he did the same.

"To us, then," George said.

"To us," Astoria replied.

They clinked glasses and sipped their wine, moments before their food came out. Astoria took great pleasure in explaining each dish, and the pair ended up sampling everything. As with the main course, Astoria ordered dessert, which they shared.

By the end of the meal, and all during their walk back to the Alley, they were holding hands.

oOoOoOoOo

_16 June 2001  
__The Burrow  
__Ottery-Saint-Catchpole, England, UK_

"Are you sure they will be alright with this, George?"

George Weasley chuckled at Astoria's nervous question. "No one will care."

"Not even your brother?" she asked, nervously. "I was a snake, after all."

"That was a long time ago. He's grown up." George chuckled to himself, getting a look from his date. "Honestly, I think they'll just be thrilled that I showed up sober."

"Aha," she replied, a smile forming as she nodded. "Well, if Ginny is typical of the rest of them, you're probably right."

George stopped walking, and stepped to the side, allowing the couple behind them to proceed to the tent behind the burrow. "What do you mean?" Off Astoria's smirk, George's face fell. "What did you do?"

"Me?" she asked, innocently. "It was your sister and future sister-in-law who stopped by the shop last week, when they found out that I was your plus one."

"Did they?"

"They did."

"And what did my sister say, exactly?"

Astoria smirked up at him. "Oh, the usual. If I hurt you, she'll use muggle tools to pull out my toenails one by one, or something along those lines."

"She didn't," George muttered.

"Oh, she did." Astoria confirmed. Now she was grinning. "Then your sister and Hermione and I had a bottle of wine and shared stories."

"Merlin save me," George said, looking to the sky.

"Oi," said Astoria. "That's my job, Mister Weasley!"

George sighed theatrically, before looking back at her with a smile. "Yes, dear."

"Good." She said. "Now that that's settled, shall we?"

George replied by offering his elbow, which Astoria took. That done, the couple walked toward the wedding.

oOoOoOoOo

_September 14, 2002  
__Potter Manor  
__Wales, UK_

It had been years since Potter Manor was host to a party like this, but everyone knew that the engagement party for Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley would be one for the books.

After the engagement dinner, as the party guests were mingling, George pulled Harry aside and asked for a private word. Harry nodded, wondering what it might be about, and looked about for Ginny.

When George saw the look, he placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "She's with Astoria, mate," he said.

Harry sighed. "What are they up to now, George?" he asked, worry creeping into his tone.

"I'm sure I have no idea," was his reply.

Harry arched an eyebrow at his friend. "You know, when you had nothing to do with a prank, you always replied with 'I don't know, sir,' or something like it. You and Fred both did that. But when you _were _up to something, you'd say that you were sure you had no idea." He watched George's reaction closely, and was not disappointed.

George's eyes widened. "No one ever figured that out. Not even Dumbledore."

Harry drained his wine glass, before setting it on his table. "Yeah, but I'm the boy who lived, mate," he said with a grin. Then he gestured toward a door leading away from the engagement party. "We'd best go see what our better halves are up to, then."

When George and Harry entered the Lord's study, they found Ginny Weasley laughing with Astoria Greengrass.

Harry nodded to his guest, as was proper. "Lady Greengrass, thank you again for coming tonight."

Astoria rolled her eyes, getting chuckles from the Weasleys. It was no secret that she took up the Greengrass seat at Harry's urging, mainly to help him in his efforts at reform. All he had needed to do was suggest that some old Malfoy allies were making moves in the Wizengamot, and she had been sold on the idea. What she had not realized was that Harry and George would both take every opportunity to use her new title, just as George and Ron teased Harry about his own.

Her voice was filled with amusement as she spoke. "Go sit next to your bride-to-be, Lord Potter if you please."

Ginny and Harry shared a look as he walked over to her. Taking a seat next to Ginny, Harry gave her a kiss on the cheek before turning to look at Astora. George, meanwhile, had done the same with his date, and now both couples sat on couches facing each other.

"George and I have something to tell you," Astoria began.

"Finally," said Ginny. Then her eyes widened and she clamped a hand over her mouth, realizing that she had said it out loud. George and Harry couldn't help but laugh at the outburst, but Astoria looked annoyed.

"Finally?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. Only the corners of her mouth threatening to turn up betrayed her amusement. "Finally, what?"

"Did my brother finally ask you to marry him?" There was hope in Ginny's tone, but it did not prepare her for the reaction she got.

Astoria and George, still holding hands, looked at each other. Then they burst out laughing.

Ginny and Harry shared a look. Had their friends gone mental?

"I'm sorry, Ginny," said Astoria, getting herself under control. "It's just…" Her reply faded into laughter.

George gave her hand a squeeze, and looked at the confused couple across from him. "Astoria and I are comfortable with where we are at the moment. Neither of us is in a hurry to change anything." He met Harry's eyes, conveying what his words did not - that both he and Astoria still had healing to do.

Harry nodded at the unspoken caveat. "Right, I can understand that," he said.

"What did you want to tell us, then?" asked a confused Ginny.

Astoria and George shared another look, and then Astoria nodded. George stood and walked over to the wall above the fireplace - one that had been bare that morning. Now there was a large portrait, by the looks of things, covered in a deep red curtain.

"George and I wanted to get you a gift for your wedding," Astoria said. "But then we realized that it would be a much better gift if you could actually bring it to your wedding. So we made it an engagement gift."

Her voice took a far more sober tone than it had before, and Ginny realized that it was the voice she used when she was working - the voice that described what work needed to be done to repair a damaged painting, the voice that described the runes and paints and processes that made her work possible. Even though her brother had brought out Astoria's mischievous side, all who knew her knew how seriously she took her profession - and she was doing that right now.

"We spoke with everyone we could to get the details right," George said. "There's no way to make a complete impression, but I can guarantee that every memory we could find is in there."

"In where?" asked Harry.

Astoria waved her wand, and the curtain fell, revealing the portrait. Ginny and Harry gasped.

There, in what looked like a comfortable but well-appointed sitting room, were James and Lily Potter.

Another spell from Astoria activated the runes in the frame, 'waking' the portrait. The still figures of Harry's parents stirred, and then looked around the unfamiliar room.

"Astoria?" Lily said, focusing on the only person they recognized - the artist who had crafted the painting.

Rising, Astoria nodded. "Lady Potter, Lord Potter, may I introduce your son, Lord Harry James Potter-Black, and his betrothed, Miss Ginevra Molly Weasley."

James and Lily turned to Harry, who was standing now, shock on his face.

"Oh my God," he whispered, taking in the sight of his parents. "How?"

"Memories," said Astoria. "Memories and accounts from everyone who knew them, and time."

"Don't let her fool you, Harry," said George, giving Astoria's hand a squeeze. "She's been working on this for close to a year now."

Harry nodded absently at the remark, unable to tear his eyes away from the image of his parents. Ginny stood next to him, her hand holding his as tightly as she could, saying nothing. She knew that his most vivid memories of his parents were their dying screams and their calm words of comfort moments before his own death.

Her husband-to-be had lamented the lack of a painting depicting James and Lily Potter, for it meant that his - no, _their _\- children would never have the chance to know their grandparents. And yet, somehow, Astoria had done the impossible.

It was a gift beyond price.

George and Astoria quietly took their leave, as Harry introduced his fiancee to his parents.

oOoOoOoOo

_27 June 2003  
__Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes  
__Diagon Alley, London_

It was an exhausted Astoria Greengrass who opened her eyes to find George missing. That wasn't unusual, since he frequently got up before she did. His shop, after all, had more regular hours than her own - and quite a bit more foot traffic. Much of her business was by appointment, and thus she could easily afford to open later in the day.

The light streaming into the windows of his flat, however, told her that it was at least midday. She had slept in, and he hadn't gotten her up.

Before she could get out of bed, the door opened and George Weasley walked in with a tray of food. He saw that she was awake, and sighed.

"So much for that," he said, as he set the tray down nearby. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, grasping her hand. "How are you feeling?"

Astoria responded with a deep yawn, causing George to chuckle. Then it was her turn to laugh at him when he yawned in turn.

"Yeah," he said, tiredly. "That's about what I figured."

She laid back on the bed, stretching her arms up toward the headboard. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mister Weasley. I happen to know that you slept less than I did."

"That is true," George agreed. He stifled another yawn before continuing. "We're so in sync with each other that even our bloody nightmares happen at the same time." If the pair of them had gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep, it would have shocked him.

Astoria closed her eyes at that. She had already wept enough tears in the hours before sunrise that day. George knew this - it had been his shoulder supporting her in her grief, just as hers had supported him the previous month.

The fifth anniversary of the battle had come and gone, and for a few weeks George had been fine. Astoria did not have the memories of the battle that he did, having been evacuated to Hogsmeade with the other Slytherins, but she had come to understand how awful the memories had gotten for the Weasley family, especially on that date of all dates.

They had both known that today, the fourth anniversary of the death of Astoria's family, would be just as hard. But neither of them had expected the nightmares to wake them as they had.

Her hand still in his, George leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Astoria's forehead. She pulled on his arm, bringing him down to her level for a hug. He responded by letting himself get pulled onto the bed, rolling past her and landing on his own side.

Astoria huffed in annoyance, but wrapped her arms around him all the same. He chuckled at her as he embraced her in turn.

George was struck once again by how well the two of them got along. They were comfortable with each other in a way he had never experienced. In many ways, he had fully expected never to share his life with anyone like Astoria. After everything he had done, during and after the war, he hadn't thought himself worthy of a love like hers - and yet, here they were.

For a long time, he had divided his life into two parts - the time before the war, and the time after it. Now, with a start, he realized that it was Astoria that marked the true turn in his life. Everything that came before her paled in comparison to the life he had found after meeting the enchanting enchantress.

George grinned at that thought, an expression that Astoria noticed.

"What's that for?" she asked quietly, snuggling into his arms.

"Just thinking about you," he replied.

"Cheeky prat," she whispered.

"You know you love it," he answered back.

"Looks that way," she breathed.

Some time later, Astoria groaned. She had fallen asleep in his arms, and George had not had the heart to move her.

"I need to open the shop," she muttered, fighting off a yawn.

"I already put up a sign, Tori," George replied. "Closed for the day."

Astoria hugged him tighter, and a smile shone up at him.

"That may be the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me."

George scoffed. "I doubt that, Miss Greengrass."

"Prat," she sighed, still smiling. "I love you."

George looked down at her again, and gave her a smile of his own. "I love you, too."

Minutes later, the exhausted couple was sound asleep. It would be evening before they woke from their much-needed slumber.

oOoOoOoOo

_18 July 2004  
__Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries  
__London_

It seemed that the entire Weasley clan was in the waiting area when Harry Potter walked in. George and Astoria were not married, but she had been adopted by the Weasley clan all the same, and it showed in the worry on their faces as they waited for news. Only Ginny was missing, but the Harpies had played a marathon fixture against Appleby that afternoon. After a five hour match, Ginny was likely to have collapsed in bed once she arrived at home.

Harry knew he would catch hell for not waking her up, but also knew that she would be wide awake in the morning when everyone else was exhausted. Besides, there was no real news to share, beyond the fact that there had been an attack.

There were plenty of theories, though. Ron was already out running some of them down with his team of aurors - for even though he knew one of the involved parties, no one was going to tell him to stay away. Not from this case.

Harry, too, had done what he could. Unfortunately, that largely consisted of him running interference with the hospital staff. Yes, Lady Greengrass had been injured in a very public attack, but if the staff allowed members of the press or the public to bother her, they would have a _very _angry Lord Potter-Black to contend with.

It was rare indeed for Harry to use his status as the Man-Who-Conquered for anything other than a punchline. But for George, for Astoria? There was nothing he wouldn't offer for the cause. Helping preserve their privacy was the least he could do.

After greeting the Weasleys, and getting whatever updates there had been (none to speak of), Harry made his way back to Astoria's room. When he arrived, Harry was struck by the almost muggle feel of the room. It had a large glass window that allowed healers to view the patient, and perhaps even cast minor diagnostic charms, without entering the room and disturbing their rest.

It also allowed Harry Potter to stand and brood over everything that had happened.

Astoria Greengrass was covered in bandages and dressings - another touch that seemed muggle at first glance. Her burns had been extensive, and the pastes used to heal severe burns needed to be covered to do their work. Only parts of her skin were uncovered, mostly on her right side, the side facing away from him.

George, meanwhile, was sitting with his head on Astoria's bed, one hand gently holding her uninjured hand. It was as Ron had said - he would not leave her side for any reason. The chair he was in was familiar, and Harry remembered that Molly was the one to conjure it for George.

_Merlin, _Harry thought to himself. _What a nightmare this is. _

After a few minutes, Harry heard footsteps approaching from the direction of the waiting area. The footfalls sounded odd against the tiled floor of the hospital, but Harry could not figure out why he thought so. As the visitor turned the corner, Harry looked up.

The newcomer was a tall, dark-skinned man. He wore glasses and an impeccable muggle suit. The man's footsteps had been odd because he wore muggle dress shoes, rather than the older style shoes or boots favored by wizards and witches.

When he was standing in front of the window, he nodded in greeting.

"Lord Potter-Black, I presume?" he asked, in his deep, accented voice.

"I am," Harry replied. "And you are?"

Instead of replying, the man looked into the hospital room, the barest hint of sadness on his stoic features. "I knew he would never leave her side," the man said, simply.

"No," agreed Harry, who also turned his attention to George and Astoria. "He wouldn't."

"Indeed," replied the man. After a moment, he spoke again. "Mister Weasley and I had a very close working relationship, some years ago. I had a hand in his training."

Harry turned back to the stranger, appraising him. It was clear, in that moment, exactly _what_ training he was referring to. The stranger turned to face him, his expression unchanged.

The man gave a slight bow, inclining his head. "My name is Charon. I believe we need to speak with our friend Pollux, before he makes a grave mistake."

* * *

_**A/N: **_**OK, OK, four chapters. George and Astoria write themselves, and I enjoyed giving them some light scenes together. Even then, however, they both have pain in their past. G****eorge is never really 'over' Fred's death, just as Astoria still mourns Daphne and her parents. But they both grab whatever happiness they can, and count themselves lucky that they get to do that together. **

**Of course, the real world always encroaches on what otherwise would be a happy ball of fluff for our adorable lovers. The chapter title, Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum, is the thesis for the entire John Wick trilogy - and, indeed, much of this story. Translated, it means "If you want Peace, Prepare for War." **

**Suffice it to say, George will need to finish his task before he gets his happily ever after. **

**Feedback, as always, is welcome.**


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